


All This Nothing

by rhymeswithcabbage



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: 5+1 Things, Angst, Awkwardness, Emotionally Constipated Percival Graves, Fluff, Jealousy, M/M, Miscommunication, Newt Scamander Just Wants To Keep His Creatures, Professionalism, Supportive Queenie Goldstein, harebrained schemes, or what passes as it
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-08
Updated: 2020-04-13
Packaged: 2021-03-02 04:20:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,405
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23549062
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rhymeswithcabbage/pseuds/rhymeswithcabbage
Summary: Newt Scamander won't talk to him.Percival Graves is going to fix it.-----Alternatively,Five times Percival Graves tries to get Newt Scamander to have a (proper) conversation with him and one time he succeeds. Sort of.(summary may be subject to change as the story develops.)
Relationships: Original Percival Graves/Newt Scamander
Comments: 15
Kudos: 108





	1. The Niffler is the Key

**Author's Note:**

> (this is my first time writing in the FBAWTFT fandom. i hope you like it!)
> 
> (also, I'm notorious for not really caring about canon-compliance and time-specific lingo so if anything is out of place or incorrectly used, it's unintentional. i'd be so grateful if you'd let me know!)

Newt Scamander is nothing special.

Graves isn't completely ignorant, of course. He can understand why his department is enamoured with the man. He's a curiosity, a novelty, with his Nundu and his bowtie, a strange mix of wild and shy, aggressive and anxious, or is it aggressively anxious? Anxiously aggressive? 

And his bright blue coattails flap about almost as wildly as the coppery ringlets that halo his perpetually nervous face like writhing, uncontrollable-

“Mr. Graves, sir? I was told you’d requested, uh, me. To see me? Requested my presence. At your office. Sir?”

Snakes, that's what they are, tiny wriggling serpents, copperheads that coil and curve and shine in the sunlight streaming through his one office window, covering his (probably unattractive – explains why he’s kept it hidden) face and curling around his right ear _just so_ -

“Um. Is. Is there something I-“

“Sit, Mr. Scamander.”

Graves rests his elbows on his desk and steeples his fingers for something to do with his hands, and narrows his eyes (analytically, not threateningly) at the (almost trembling, is the man cold?) magizoologist now slowly lowering himself into the single, uncomfortable chair in front of Graves’ desk, clutching his case in front of him like a shield. Maybe he's Medusa. 

“Um, Mr. Graves, Sir?”

It would explain a few things. His effortless kinship with his creatures, for one. Graves watches the man squirm in his seat, open his mouth, then close it. And then do it again, adding _lip-biting_ into the mix this time for purposes Graves cannot even begin to comprehend and _could he desist?_

Medusa, or Veela? Maybe both? Graves doesn't know enough about cross-breeding to know if it's possible, only that it should definitely be made illegal. It's (probably) why Graves is so stiff and...unable to articulate in this man's presence.

Possibly. Almost certainly.

 _This man_ , who looks like actual conversation is a foreign concept to him, honestly, doesn't dealing with beasts give you some sense of how to appear in charge of a situation?

Hence, the fact that Graves is so discombobulated in the presence of a meer man, _this man_ , is simply a side-effect of the man being not completely, well, a man. Obviously.

The maybe-man fidgets a bit with the handle of his case, and then goes still, knuckles whitening as he sneaks a peek at Graves before looking away again. Graves lowers his hands back into his lap as his eyes narrow further. Contemplatively.

The action makes Scamander's shoulders hunch in further, which Graves ignores, because honestly, this man tames dragons and Graves knows this. Graves isn't buying this oh-so-innocent act. He's clearly up to something.

“So sorry. But um. Could you maybe.” There's a faint tremble in his soft voice as those eyes dart up to Graves' forehead, than to his left ear before quickly darting back down to the floor and damn, this guy is _good_. Graves would almost buy it if he wasn't so keyed up. And well informed.

And that’s actually a rather pretty shade of green. 

He really must ask Theseus about the Veela thing. As a matter of urgency. For the good of his department.

“Only I have to meet with the Madam President in a few minutes-“

The man keeps talking in that deceptively guileless voice, and his shoulders are hunched in almost as much as his hair sticks out, and does he honestly think it makes him seem smaller? The man is taller than Graves would be even if he somehow steals Picquery’s headgear of choice and plonks it on his head. Graves' eyes narrow further. The man is shaking so much it's a wonder he hasn't fallen out of his chair. What do his aurors see in him?

Right. Nundu.  
  
"And she always seems, ah, rather irritable when I'm late, of course, she does seem to be more irritable in my, ah, presence than she usually is but, um, I- if you could just-"

“Where is your niffler, Mr. Scamander?”

“-tell me what's. Uh. What?” His nervous rambling stops and his eyes shoot back up to Graves’ face, startled into propriety. “Um."

"Your niffler, Mr. Scamander.” He watches the eyes dart to the window on his right as if craving an escape route and they really are rather pretty eyes, he doesn't understand why he keeps them covered, and his nose isn't half bad either, a little crooked, just the slightest bit upturned, curving softly down to a rather tempting cupid's bow, nestled over pale pink lips and Graves is suddenly possessed by the urge to-

"Newt. And, um. Darcy? Is? In the case, as she, um, always is. At least." His freckles seem to stand out a bit more as he pales, eyes going a bit wide. "She should be. Yes."

"I see." Graves leans forward slowly, watching as Scamander's shoulders shrink inwards proportionately to the raising of his brow. "So, she's in the case. That case."

"Yes?"

"And is not currently in the custody of Auror Goldstein, caught after rampaging through my department and upending a total of thirty one inkwells, each of which conveniently went missing almost immediately after the resulting ruined reports?" He watches the man's horrified eyes, which are focused on his own for once, grow wider and wider with each word. "Not to mention the seventeen silver tipped pens that have vanished into thin air."

"I-um-"

"But Darcy, you say, is in your case." He steeples his fingers on his desk again. "And you are our consultant magizoologist. So I'll take your word for it."

"Oh, I. Is that. Oh. Alright. Yes" The man gets up slowly, almost hesitantly, "I'll. I'll just."

"I do believe a visit to Auror Goldstein's office would be prudent."

"I'll just. Do that, Mr. Director sir. I. Thank. You?" He jerks to his feet and backs away from the desk, adjusting his bowtie and licking his lips in his haste to escape and it's good that he can't see that Graves is on the verge of a nervous breakdown (possibly because the man is on the verge of a breakdown himself) but Graves is on the verge of a nervous breakdown and the furrow between Mr. Scamander's eyebrows and those bright eyes, now staring at him like he's either a gift from the Gods or completely insane (Graves can't tell which) aren't really helping matters. "I'll just. Go, then."

"I do believe Abernathy has, ah, _misplaced_ his silver pocketwatch as well."

A frantic nod, a sweep of bright blue coattails and a door closing softly, and it's like the man was never here to begin with. Graves tries to collect the wits that have somehow ended up scattered across his office floor in the last few minutes. He keeps his fingers steepled on the desk, finding he rather likes the pensive aura it gives him.

So. Veela then. At least one eighth, he guesses. And he needs to ask Theseus about the Medusa thing too. Maybe they're descended, somehow? There must be something, because there was a moment in that meeting - talk - encounter when Graves had been sure he couldn't move a muscle, and that isn't normal, is it?

"Of course it is, dearie," He doesn't jump out of his skin as the door opens and Queenie Goldstein skips through uninvited, as she's wont to do these days. Not physically, anyway. "It's called feelings. And don't be silly, Newt's one hundred percent human." She grins at him brightly. "So? How'd it go?" She sets two coffee cups on his table.

He pinches the bridge of his nose and sighs, ruining his steeple in the process. He used to be terrifying. Unapproachable. What went wrong?

"Oh, you still are, honey, don't worry. Just not to people who understand you better now. Like me! And you're right, it really does give you a meditative air, you might try doing it in meetings now and then. Picquery might actually take you seriously for once." She winks at him and he gives her his best glare, which she ignores in favour of dropping into his chair (which has been transfigured into a cushy pink armchair, when did that happen?) and leaning forward excitedly. "So? Did he agree to coffee?"

He sighs, knowing he's not getting out of this, and then frowns contemplatively, picking up his coffee cup. "It didn't come up." She frowns at him reproachfully and he shrugs, taking a sip of bitter heaven. Ah. _Bliss_. "It was a work meeting, Goldstein, strictly professional."

"Oh, really. The strictly professional meeting that you've been anticipating for weeks. Planning. Plotting. Maybe even looking forward to."

He ignores her. "Considering the first time, this one wasn't too bad, I suppose." 

Queenie raises a skeptical eyebrow at him. "You mean the time Tina brought him in here to introduce you to each other and he took one look at you, 'meep'ed, and fled?"

"I honestly don't know why that happened, I took care to arrange my face into something perfectly pleasant."

"He 'meep'ed, Graves!"

"The man calls himself Mummy, and named his Nundu Lily, why does he even do anything!"

"He ' _meep'ed_!"

"It wasn't my fault!"

She gives him a flat look but lets it slide. "Well, he seemed pretty shaken on the way to Tina's just now. And relieved, that you hadn't ordered Darcy to be exterminated, or anything. So that's one good thing, I suppose."

"Exterminated?"

"Apparently nifflers are classified as pests under most official, definitions, I suppose."

"Oh. Well. I wouldn't have had the thing killed, Mercy Lewis."

"Well, you can't blame the man, you almost had _him_ exterminated before, remember? Well, you wouldn't remember. He does, though. Rather vividly."

"I did what?"

"Well, obviously not you-you. Other-you." Why did no one tell him this? 

Queenie looks horrified. "I'm- I'm so sorry, honey. I thought you knew."

Of course she did. He knew Picquery insisted he be given as little information as possible about what happened because the Healers insisted on as little mental strain as possible but. He's fine now. He's better. They could've told him.

"We didn't want to bring things up that were. Better left forgotten. That's Newt's trauma to handle, not yours. There's nothing you can do."

Yeah, but he could've known about it. Known that one of the first memories the man has of him are of him sentencing him to death. Is that why Abernathy has been going stiff whenever he sees him? Goldstein too, now that he thinks about it, the elder one. Who else, what else has he missed, no one he trusts has told him anything, and the rest of his department is obviously too suspicious to realize he's the same as before, just a little worse for wear.

Not that the silence is any different from the past few months. Or years. Maybe he really does have just himself to blame.

"Don't be silly, honey. Look, Newt knows it wasn't you, back then. It was a bad comparison, I shouldn't have brought it up. He's just...bad with people."

Graves snorts, amused despite himself. "Understatement of the year."

He needs to fix things. 

"Newt might also possibly think that you look much more, intense, than your, ah, impersonator did, completely hypothetical, of course," Queenie adds hesitantly.

"Does he, now?" He deadpans. "How wonderful, to be more intense than the darkest and craziest wizard of our time."

"I think he meant it as a compliment, actually. Although he did, hypothetically, of course, think you were just as intimidating, if not more-"

"Is there a point to this lecture, Goldstein?"

"And he might have compared the shade your eyes to thunderbird feathers." Graves' mind draws a blank at that, because _what_. "All this is purely hypothetical of course, there's no way I could possibly know, that accent really throws me-"

How would Scamander even know what colour his eyes were? The only time he'd actually looked Graves in the eye was when Graves had been telling the increasingly frazzled man about his - oh.

"And he also has some, a few, possibly flattering thoughts about your mouth, although I don't think those are, ah, suitable for spoken conversation, maybe I could write them down for you? If you'd like, I mean, this is all just speculation, of course-"

"Goldstein."

"Hmm?"

"How exactly does one steal a thief?"

She stares at him for a second before her eyes light up with understanding. The corner of her mouth quirks up.

"Kidnap a kleptomaniac, you mean? Well, there are a few ways..."

\-----

Sticky fingered, duck-billed Darcy was slipperier than she looked. 

"Why are we doing this again?"

"Shush, Abernathy." Queenie closes her eyes and bites her lip as she adjusts her aim. 

"But-"

"I told you, it's so Mr. Graves can talk to Newt! Now pipe down!"

"Ah. Right. You did say that." He stares at her for a second before peeking over the desk they're hiding behind. "And how exactly are we helping them do that?"

"Just, shush. And get down!" She pulls him down by the collar. "She'll see you!"

He gapes at her. "Who?!"

"The niffler!"

The niff- oh. That squeaky little shit that keeps stealing his pocketwatch. 

"And catching that monster will help boss talk to Newt...how?"

"Just shut up and give me that net bomb, Abernathy. And don't fall over- careful!"

\-----

A dozen traps and she evaded them all. With ease. After the last one had resulted in Peterson sprawled in a heap of limbs in the middle of the Wand Permit office, Graves was forced to call it quits. And buy replacements for the sixty three silver tipped pens and fourteen inkwells the Niffler had stolen, honestly Abernathy, do you not understand the concept of preserving bait? And what does a Wand Permit office need more than sixty pens for anyway, there are barely sixty wizards in New York City as it is, it's all completely ridiculous, really.

So, traps didn't work.

Neither did the more desperate measures.

"I thought you said nifflers liked cheese, Goldstein!"

"Well, they're related to rodents, that's what Newt said!"

"Argh!" He waves the small cube in what he hopes is a tempting manner at the puzzled looking creature. "Here, girl! Come and get it!" 

The niffler scans his rumpled form from head to toe and, not finding anything shiny on his person (she'd already stolen his cufflinks when he'd tried luring her with pearl beads. And his wristwatch. Apparently breadcrumb trails only work for birds. And she'd managed to get his tie pin too, somehow. Perhaps it's better if Percival doesn't know exactly how), shrugs disinterestedly before continuing to fish the shiny crystals out from the rock bed at the bottom of Auror Suresh's goldfish bowl with his fish net. With surprising efficiency for a web-toed quadruped with no opposable thumbs.

The fish are suspiciously absent.

Graves lowers the cheese and turns to Queenie with a frown. "We need a new plan."

\-----

"Aha!"

Graves grabs the nearest thing he can reach, which just so happens to be Tina Goldstein's hat (she's right behind him in line). She yelps as it flies off her head, but hairstyles are a small sacrifice to make in the pursuit of justice. With not a moment to lose, he slams it down on top of the cafeteria's Donations Jar. "I've got you now, you sneaky demon!"

Darcy freezes in the act of stuffing sickles into her pouch.

Victory. _At last_.

"Mr Graves?"

He turns autmoatically toward the vaguely familiar voice. The look on his face is manic, possibly a bit deranged, but he's past caring about such trivial matters, he's finally done it. _Finally_.

"Mr. Graves! No!"

The pained scream tears him out of his euphoric stupor and he stares, horrified, as a suitcase and a blue coat crowned by wildly flapping red hair charge at him at full speed.

And then there is pain and he recalls swaying and the dislocation of his centre of gravity before his face is in what he's pretty sure is cherry pie, and is that mayonnaise in his hair? Why, _why_ do these things happen to him. First Grindelwald, now guacamole.

"I'm so. So sorry, Mr. Graves. Oh my goodness, so, so, sorry, here, let me just," and there are hands on his elbows, pulling him up and he's standing again and there's silent stares from every direction and this is possibly the quietest MACUSA's cafeteria has ever been during lunch hour, and he's staring at green eyes for a second before they're shielded by wild red hair.

And then there's an avalanche of apologies and Graves turns, dazed, to see Tina Goldstein clutching her hat to her chest and gaping at him, one of his favourite lunch ladies with cherry dribbling down her forehead, glaring at him, an upturned, empty Donations jar on the floor and a tiny platypus smirking at him from Newt Scamander's shoulder and just. He just. 

"-doesn't mean anything by it, she's just got terribly low self-control, I'm afraid, I've tried to discipline her but it, ah, doesn't seem to have had much, erm, effect,"

There's a second, just one second, that he doesn't care that he's the Director of Magical Security at MACUSA and that his retention of the position is doubtful at best. The hairy little thief winks at him from her perch on Scamander's shoulder and for a second, he's just possessed by the urge to _lunge_ -

"-harmless really, and she can't survive in the wild anymore, and you, I," and there's a fierceness in the stuttering now that Graves can't ignore, "you can't take her away from me, Mr. Graves, you just can't, I won't let you, not to mention it would be, unwise, on, on so many levels, and,"

And all the fight just drain out of Graves, just like that. "Mr. Scamander."

"quite clever, really- yes?" The man looks scared and trapped without his passionate speech as a shield and Graves hates himself, just a little bit.

"It was not my intention to take her away from you."

"I- oh." Newt Scamander looks up at him and for the second time in two weeks, Graves forgets how to breathe. "But then why were you- I thought-"

"I apologize, Mr. Scamander. Darcy truly is a remarkable creature. Very intelligent."

The man stares at him, gobsmacked. "Oh. So I. She. She's not. In trouble?"

Graves sighs, because how on earth can he explain this in a way that makes sense? "Just. Make sure she doesn't strip MACUSA bare. Will you?"

"Ah. Of course." He frowns. "She has been rather more adventurous lately. Almost like something's been luring her out." Graves fights down the heat in his cheeks with force because he is the Director of Magical Security and he does not _blush._ "But ah, I'll. Pay for the replacements. And. Return anything she took. Most of it. Or I'll try to, anyhow."

"There will be no need for all that, Mr. Scamander." Graves tries to look reassuring, but by the startled expression on Scamander's face, it's possible he just looks constipated. "See to it that she. Wreaks minimal havoc, as it were."

"Uh. I. It's Newt. And I. Yes, Sir." 

The niffler sticks her tongue out at him.

"Good enough for me, Mr. Scamander." Graves shrugs, trying to ease the tension. It doesn't seem to work very well. He nods at the man and walks away, swiping a hand through his hair. 

Ah. Mustard.

He wipes cherry pie out of his eye and ignores everyone in the cafeteria staring at him as he walks out with calm, purposeful strides. It's a pity steepling has no effect when you're standing up.

\-----

He frowns at Queenie as she comes in that evening with their coffee. The mustard stain on his collar just won't come off, and he can still smell cherry. 

He _hates_ cherry.

"We need a new plan."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! Thanks for reading!
> 
> Honestly, I thought "Newt and Percy with MAJOR communication issues" and the plot bunny started hopping around like mad. And then I thought, what if Graves tried to catch Newt's niffler so he could return it as an excuse to talk to him. And what if he couldn't.
> 
> Queenie and Graves becoming friends after his recovery is one of my favourite things. I like to think it's because his occlumency shields are weakened after his capture and Queenie's heart breaks for the man but she never tells him she's seen things and he pretends he doesn't know that she's seen things and she tells him about Jacob and he glares at her because "don't get me involved in this madness, Goldstein, do you want me to lose my job" and he can tell that her heart is a little world weary too and they're just. Friends.
> 
> Also, frowny Graves. :D
> 
> Reviews are appreciated, adored, welcomed with open arms. Yes, negative ones too! Please leave some feedback if you're feeling up to it, I love to know what you guys think and how you interpret the crazy things I write, and I'd like to make sure the next chapter does this one justice :D
> 
> Comments and kudos make my day. My week. My entire year. Really, you have no idea.
> 
> Thanks so much for reading! Have a lovely day! <3


	2. Cappucci-No?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everybody likes coffee. Right?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello lovelies! Hope you like this chapter!

Everybody likes coffee.

Take Graves, for example. Every morning he wakes up in rumpled, sweat-soaked sheets (but we don't talk about that), dreading leaving it almost as much as he dreads getting into it, and his mouth tastes like death because he stopped brushing his teeth before bed (it's one less time he has to see himself in the bathroom mirror he keeps meaning to get rid of, but can't because this is _his home_ , for Pete's sake, he shouldn't have to change it just because some maniac-)

But we don't talk about that.

We’re getting off track. Everybody likes coffee.

Queenie Goldstein loves coffee. She drowns it in sugar and milk until it’s practically in disguise and Graves would be sickened by it if she didn’t have a cup of straight black in her other hand. She loves coffee and conversation and calling him a moron and two out of three of those what he's aiming for right now.

Tina Goldstein loves coffee, chugs it down ten times a day like a ritual. Graves knows this. Because Queenie knows this. And Queenie does not like it. And Graves knows that Queenie does not like it. Queenie has made this clear to him. Multiple times. There’ve even been a few rants thrown in but what can Graves do? She's an auror. She has paperwork to do, bad guys to catch, paperwork to do. No, Queenie, she can't switch to decaf and she wouldn't even if Graves asked her to. She's an auror. Evil never rests. Sleep is not a priority. _She has paperwork to do._

Graves loves coffee. Black as his soul, or what's left of it, anyway. The cups Queenie brings him from the MACUSA cafeteria are the best in the city - he can't get enough of it.

Before, it was just a habit, his kickstart in the mornings and his companion through long stakeouts and laborious reports. Now, the bitterness carpets his tongue like bad breath and he has to admit it's not entirely pleasant but he can't stop downing the stuff. Maybe because it's bitter enough to make the rest of his life seem less bleak. Maybe it’s so strong that he can’t really think about anything else when it hits his throat. Maybe he just likes punishing himself.

He doesn't really know why, doesn't really care why because it keeps him sane, keeps him standing, keeps the cogs turning in his brain so he can come up with brilliant new ways to improve national security and stay one step ahead of brilliant (morally compromised, yes, but brilliant) criminals and keep up with Queenie Goldstein's brilliant mind hidden behind her brilliant smile and come up with brilliant schemes to do brilliant things like impress the President with his brilliance so she wouldn't think that firing him was a brilliant idea. And think up brilliant conversation starters to talk to his aurors so they would recognize it if- so they would notice. _Brilliant._ He’s brilliant. Graves is brilliant.

(Graves hasn't had his coffee yet. Can you tell?)

Coffee is brilliant. Graves breathes in the heady scent from the two cups in his hands and ignores his increasingly sweaty palms. Coffee is hot. It doesn't matter that you can't really feel the heat of the stuff through the paper cup, this stuff is _hot_.

He turns the corner and finds his target.

“Mr. Scamander.”

The man jumps and turns from where he’s been one-handedly gesturing furiously at…Abernathy’s fishbowl, from the looks of it. He stops in the middle of his rant - something about a bow and a truck and a pick-it and stealing fishfood but Graves doesn’t have the time or energy or patience to even begin to make sense of any of that so he settles for a nod. The man stares at him for a second and then seems to remember himself, looking frantically down at the fishbowl and then back at Graves before plastering a smile on his face.

“Oh Mr. Graves! So nice to, ah, see you, here, in this part of the office. I. Good morning!” The man turns slowly, running the no longer gesturing hand through his brilliantly red hair while the other, which has been out of sight since Graves saw him, disappears into his coat pocket.

“How are you? Doing? Um. Also what. What are you doing here? Not that you can’t be here, of course!” The hand has left his hair and is gesturing wildly again except it’s in his direction this time, and his pocket writhes for a second before the man’s palm waves surreptitiously over it and it stills, or it appears to still. “You’re perfectly welcome. I was just on my way to my new, um, office, actually, would you like to-“ His hand gestures wildly in the air while the other firmly fastens his coat pocket shut and Graves doesn’t have time for this. Graves is a man on a mission and the mission will be done.

He thrusts one coffee-holding hand out at the man, carefully, so it doesn’t slip out of his drenched palm. "Coffee."

The rambling, which is obviously a coverup, Graves knew it, he _knew_ the man was hiding something but he’ll come back and deal with it later because he really _cannot_ right now. The rambling comes to an abrupt halt again, in favour of a widened stare and a blurted out “What?”

Maybe Scamander really is mad. Or maybe he hasn’t had his coffee this morning yet either.

Graves thrusts the cup closer to his chest and the man takes a step back. Graves narrows his eyes and steps forward. The man steps back again, except there’s nowhere to step back to, there’s just a desk with a fishbowl and cluttered paperwork on it, so he just _looks_ at Graves like a cornered animal and his eyes a _brilliantly_ green. Graves narrows his eyes further and pushes the cup closer. _“Coffee.”_

Mr. Scamander looks at the coffee cup in front of him like it might bite him. He looks at the arm attached to the coffee cup. The man's hair is sticking out in every possible direction and it’s so _so_ red and if Graves doesn’t leave right this second he might do something stupid like-

“I. I don’t-”

“Just take it, Scamander!”

The man jumps in fright and grabs the cup, almost as a reflex. Graves lowers his arm in relief, suppressing the urge to rub his elbow. He nods at the man and frowns. Why is he so terrified? He tries to smile at him, showing he means no harm but somehow he looks more alarmed now and maybe it’s better if Graves just leaves.

He nods again. “Have a nice day, Mr. Scamander.”

Mr. Scamander looks up from his shoulder, one again startled into propriety. He should keep that in mind for future confrontations. Rendezvous’? Run-ins, he decides, as he nods at the man _again_ except this time he’s sure he noticed, and turns to leave, striding purposefully back down the hall while surreptitiously wiping his palm on his pant leg.

He thinks he hears a soft, bewildered “You, too.” as he turns the corner. He takes a sip to hide his grin because it wouldn’t do for his Aurors to see him smile. He ignores the stares that follow him and he walks to his office.

Mmm. _Coffee._

\-----

Queenie raises a suspicious brow at him. “What are you smiling about?”

“I’m not smiling.” He frowns at her as he sips his coffee. “Are you blind?”

“I’m not. And you aren’t. Smiling. You never smile. But your thoughts are, Graves,” she grins at him. “Did you do it, then?”

He raises an eyebrow at her. “My thoughts are smiling?”

“Is that a yes?”

“Perhaps.”

She winks at him and he ignores her. She frowns. “You’ve been working on your shields.”

“Yes.” He takes another sip.

She looks at him for another minute. “Was it nice?”

“Define nice.”

She rolls her eyes at him. “Did you talk, Graves.”

Another sip. “Yes.”

She gives him a pleased look. “I’m glad.” He nods and she starts her usual tirade of Tina works too hard and Jacob is sweeter than his occamy donuts and Graves is such a moron, if only he would _talk_ to someone about what’s bothering him-

And Graves looks out the window and sips his coffee and lets his thoughts smile at her.

\-----

Newt Scamander jumps. Graves wonders if it’s just a reaction to his presence at this point.

He did knock.

“Mr. Ah. Director Graves, sir.” He hastily stands from the chair behind his desk. “Good morning! What brings you here?”

Graves tries to smile pleasantly but whatever his face does, it makes Scamander’s eye twitch like he’s hiding a grimace so he shifts it back into neutral.

After a second of tense silence, “Darcy’s been perfectly well behaved, I promise.”

Graves’ eyes narrow in confusion. Scamander’s eyes widen and he continues, more frantically.

“She is, I swear, I can take you down and show you right now, if you want to-“

“Coffee, Mr. Scamander.”

“It’s Newt. Oh.” He stares at Graves’ hand, and the cup is slipping because damn hot coffee and damn sweaty palms and damn stubborn magizoologists who can’t take what they need when it’s given to them. “But I really don’t- Mr. Graves, I-“

He puts the cup down on Mr. Scamander’s desk – he doesn’t slam it, but it’s a close thing. It still makes the man jump. Is he this jumpy with everyone?

“But I- I really don’t-“

“Good day, Mr. Scamander.”

He nods and walks out, sipping his coffee and putting brilliant green eyes out of his mind. He has a meeting with the President and he can’t afford to be distracted.

The office door closes behind him with a _click_ and he heads to the cafeteria. One more cup should suffice.

\-----

He knocks.

“Good morning, Mr. Scamander.”

“Oh, Mr. Graves, hi. Good morning. And. It’s Newt. I-“

“Coffee.”

“Oh, I- you know, I really-“

“Good day, Mr. Scamander.”

_Click._

_\-----_

Three smart raps.

“Coffee, Mr. Scamander.”

“I. Mr. Graves, really, you needn’t-“

“Have a nice day.”

_Click._

_\-----_

_KnockKnockKnock._

“Mr. Scamander.”

“Oh. Mr. Graves. Hi.”

Graves tactfully pretends he didn’t just see the man stuff a bowtruckle into a flowervase. “Coffee.”

“I just- Oh, I-“

“See you, Mr. Scamander.”

“I- Oh, no, I-“

_Click._

\-----

“Good morning.”

“Terrible morning, really.”

Graves pauses, thrown. “What?”

The man starts. “Oh Mr. Graves. It’s, it’s nothing, it’s just,” he runs a hand through his hair and sighs, apparently distressed enough to forget to be terrified. “I’m sorry. Pickett’s being his usual moody self and one of the occamies is moulting and keeps crying for her mum and Emma’s throwing a tantrum because I couldn’t get to the bakery in time to grab the Mooncalf Muffins and apparently Erumpent Buns aren’t good enough for Ms. Emmaline, and Dougal’s more withdrawn lately which is unusual and I’m just, worried – so sorry,” the man shakes himself and looks at him, green eyes a little lost. “Can I help you?”

“Coffee.”

“Oh, I.” Scamander frowns. “Mr. Graves, I should tell you, I really don’t-“

“It’s alright, Mr. Scamander. Happy to help.”

“But I-“

He pauses as he reaches the door and turns. “I hope your day gets better.”

“But you don’t understand, I-“

_Click._

_\-----_

“So, how’re things going with Newt?”

He sips his coffee and shrugs. “Good.”

Queenie looks at him for a moment. “Just good?”

“The plan worked, Queenie. It works. Every day.”

Her eyes widen. “Every day?”

“Yes?” He raises an eyebrow at her. “Why?”

She stares at him. “I- I just- no reason.” She grins wide, which is kind of creepy paired with the wide eyes. Graves eyes her warily. “I’m happy for you.”

He shrugs and sips his coffee.

\-----

Graves knocks and enters to the abrupt ending of conversation, which he’s grown accustomed to this past week. He strides in, purposefully as usual, and stops in his tracks.

Newt isn’t talking to his suitcase, or his pot plant, or his paperwork. Tina Goldstein is sitting in the chair in front of Newt Scamander’s desk. Newt has paused in the middle of gesticulating wildly at her. So the man talks to everything like that.

And everyone, apparently. Or maybe just Tina Goldstein.

He’s talking to Tina Goldstein.

Why is he talking to Tina Goldstein?

She shoots up when she sees him, a brisk, no-nonsense, “Good morning, sir.” out of her lips before he’s taken two steps in, and that’s why Graves likes her. She’s brisk. No-nonsense. He can always count on her to keep her head on straight in a crisis. Except that little business with the No-maj, but that was more temper than panic and he can handle passion in aurors, admires it even, what he can’t handle is someone deciding halfway through an op that they’d rather be anywhere but there. It’s happened before. And Tina Goldstein would never compromise a mission. She’s as fearless as she is frightening.

And somehow, she’s in the same room as Newt Scamander. And he doesn’t seem uncomfortable. Or terrified. He’d seemed. Relaxed, actually, in his element, before Graves had barged in. And that was. Different.

Was Graves doing this wrong? He’d noticed the man was jumpy and he’d thought the man was that way with everyone, and yet. He’d thought the animated conversation was restricted to inanimate objects, and yet.

And yet.

Tina Goldstein. Tina was Queenie’s sister. Queenie was (at first, unwillingly and now, inescapably) Graves’ friend.

He puts the coffee cup down on Newt’s desk, nods at each of them, turns on his heel.

_Click._

\-----

“What’s your sister like?”

Queenie narrows his eyes at him. “My sister?”

“Yes, your sister. One of my aurors.” He shrugs, putting his coffee cup on his desk. “Next in line for a promotion, or so I hear. What’s she like?”

She raises a perfect blonde brow at him. “You’re in charge of promotions. You decide who’s next in line. And I talk about her every day.”

“You talk about how she drives you insane, Goldstein.” He rolls his eyes. “How she works too much and eats too little and sleeps too light. You don’t talk about what she’s like.”

She’s still looking at him suspiciously. “Why do you want to know, all of a sudden?”

He shrugs, trying to appear nonchalant. “Just wondering.”

“Hmm.” She studies him over her coffee cup as she takes a sip. “Is this about Newt?”

His grip goes tight on his cup before he can stop it and he lowers his hand to his lap. He hopes she didn’t notice.

“Mr. Scamander?” He shrugs, the picture of nonchalance. “The magizoologist? Why would this have anything to do with him?”

She rolls her eyes at him. “Don’t play coy, honey, it doesn’t suit you. What happened?”

“Nothing. Why do you think something happened? Wait, _did_ something happen?”

“What?”

“What?”

She gives him a strange look and he fidgets with his fingers under the table and tries to project his best ‘I’m-not-crazy’ aura.

He may have overdone the nonchalance a bit.

She stares at him suspiciously and his mails are scarring his palms. Then suddenly, she grins at him, bright and wide and brilliant. “You’re strange, Graves.” She winks and he blinks. “But I like that we’re friends. It was more fun when I could read your mind, you know.” He rolls his eyes at her because of course it was. She sticks her tongue out at him and he’s almost startled into laughing but he catches himself in time. She must have noticed though, because she grins wider. “I have to admit, all this mystery is interesting. Keeps me on my toes.”

He raises his coffee cup at her. “Right back at you, Goldstein.”

“The amazing friend bit or the intriguing enigma bit?”

“Aren’t they the same thing?”

She laughs, and he almost smiles back.

Almost.

\-----

“Coffee, Mr. Scamander.”

“You really don’t have to-“

“Good day.”

_Click._

\-----

“Good morning.”

“Mr. Graves, really, I must insist-“

“Have a nice day, Mr. Scamander.”

_Click._

\-----

Newt isn’t in his office.

Graves frowns. He steps out. The door clicks shut behind him.

He stands there for a moment, still frowning. Slowly, he makes his way to Tina Goldstein’s office.

“Goldstein.”

She jumps and stands. “Good morning, sir. Can I-“

“Have you seen Newt?”

She frowns. “Oh, he was just.” Her eyes dart almost imperceptibly to the couch before locking back on Graves. “Not here sir. I mean, I haven’t seen him. Here. Maybe he’s in the cafeteria?”

“I just left the cafeteria, Goldstein.” He frowns. “Let me know if you see him.”

“I- of course, sir.”

Graves nods and goes back to Newt’s office. Where else could the man be? Wherever he’s run off to, he’ll have to come back here at some point.

Graves puts the coffee on his desk and leaves.

\-----

Graves knocks.

The office is empty.

Graves puts the coffee on the desk.

_Click._

\-----

_KnockKnock. KnockKnock._

The desk is cluttered with paperwork, files marked ‘IMPORTANT’ in big red letters and potted plants on every available surface.

There’s no Newt Scamander sitting behind it.

He conjures a coaster that’s strangely niffler shaped and puts it on one of the more stable book piles. He puts the coffee on top of it. He adds a stabilizing charm for good measure.

_Click._

\-----

Graves knocks.

The office is empty. Emptier than empy. Graves frowns. The desk is gone.

He conjures a small cupholder on Mr. Scamander’s office chair, the only furniture in the room. On the left arm, because he’s seen the man use it more precisely than his right when wildly gesturing at his bamboo.

_Click._

\-----

“So, how’s Newt?”

Graves shrugs. “I don’t know.”

“What do you mean, you don’t know?”

“I mean I don’t know, Goldstein.” He can’t keep the sharpness out of his tone and he hates the way Queenie’s face falls but. He doesn’t know.

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s alright.” And she seems like she’s going to say something but then she starts complaining about the abandoned crup puppy Tina brought home from the shelter and Jacob’s new pastry design and it is alright. It’s fine.

Except it isn’t.

\----

Graves corners Newt as he’s coming back from lunch.

“Have you been avoiding me?”

The man gasps and straightens from his ready-to-dash stance, holding his suitcase in front of him like a shield. “Oh. Mr. Graves. Hi.” He frowns. “How long have you been waiting here, exactly?”

Graves grabs him by the elbow and leads him back into the office. His knuckles are white around the handle and his eyes are a brilliant green and his hair is red, red, _red_ and “Have I said something wrong.”

“No, no, Mr. Graves, so sorry, I-“

“Have I done something, then,”

“Well, yes, actually, you, you do-“

“What? What did I do? Just tell me and I’ll stop, Mr. Scamander, I-“

“Newt. And. It’s. I just-“

“What is it-“

“It’s just-“

“ _Tell me-“_

“The coffee thing. Mr. Graves, I.”

Graves’ anxious, bordering on panicky expression smooths into confusion. He can feel it happen. Scamander’s eyes widen a tad, but his gaze stays locked to Graves’ shoulder.

“The coffee thing?”

“Yes, I.” The man gulps, almost audible in the empty room. “I don’t.” He pauses.

“What,” Graves is not panicking, you’re panicking. “Did I add too much sugar? I like mine with none but I thought you’d appreciate-“

“No, it’s not-“

“Or was it too hot? Damn it, I knew it was, I _knew_ I should’ve cast a cooling charm on those cups-“

“Mr. Graves, if you would just-“

“Was there too much? Or too little? Why didn’t you tell me, Mr. Scamander, I could have-“

“I DON’T LIKE COFFEE.”

Graves stares. Newt stares back. Then his hands fly up and clamp over his mouth, eyes widening. His suitcase falls to the floor with a thud.

“You-“ Graves keeps staring, his mouth opening and closing like Abernathy’s goldfish. “What.” Nope. Still doesn’t make sense. Everyone likes coffee.”

Newt unfreezes slowly, then removes his hands from his mouth and slowly picks up his case, chewing on his lip. Honestly, Graves’ nerves are fried to fritters already, _what_ is that supposed to achieve.

Graves wait patiently (not fretfully at all) as he runs his hand through his hair because obviously the words that came out of his mouth before were wrong and obviously he is going to change them.

What comes out now is, “I didn’t really want to tell you like this, but,” he glances at Graves’ face before inspecting his shoulder again. “I did try to tell you, before, Mr. Graves. Since the beginning. Several times, in fact.” He sighs, and looks Graves in the eye. “I don’t like coffee.”

Graves stares. And stares. Newt squirms and fidgets and eventually just decides to keep staring at his shoulder, occasionally glancing at his face. It takes all he has not to scream.

It takes a while for him to be able to speak. And even then, all he manages to croak out is “I- I don’t- but _everyone-_ “ and then he can’t say anything at all.

Newt shuffles a little.“So sorry, I. I really don’t mean to offend, Mr. Graves. I do appreciate what you did. And the sugar, though, I didn’t notice it at the time, but. Thank you. And I’m sure Pickett appreciated all the free drinks but it really isn’t very good for his metabolism, for any of their metabolisms, or their sleep cycles, and I, it’s actually not very good for my own either, or yours, for that matter, and.” He frowns “I, not to be rude, so sorry, it’s really not my intention to- but I would really appreciate it if you, ah, that is to say, stopped?”

Graves is still gaping at him. “Stopped.”

“Yes, stopped. Ceased. Desisted.”

“Stopped…the coffee?”

“Yes, Mr. Graves.“ Newt frowns at him, as if he’s the one not making sense, and honestly, _what is that._ “The coffee. So sorry, I, really, I did try to tell you, every time, but you always rushed out before I could and you were never around when I was on break and frankly your secretary scares me and-“

“You want me to stop. The coffee?”

“Erm, yes.” He frowns, but it’s different this time, apologetic, and guilty, why is the man guilty, he hasn’t done anything wrong, it’s not like not liking coffee is _against the law_ , “I loathe the stuff, to be honest, never could drink more than two sips without gagging, even sugared and milked up like Queenie takes it. Tea for me, and leave me be, is what I say when they offer,” he laughs, a bit nervously, “So If you could. Maybe just. Leave me be. That would be. Much appreciated, Mr. Graves.”

Queenie. Queenie Goldstein. Queenie, who was happy for Graves, who had known all along, except she’d known nothing because Graves is a damn idiot.

Graves frowns down at the coffee cup in his hand. He nods, and walks out of the office.

_Click._

He drops the full, heavy cup of failure in the bin right next to the door. He stuffs his hands in his pockets and stalks to his office.

With purpose.

\-----

Graves frowns down at his coffee cup. Queenie stares at him.

That’s okay, he can give her time to process. As much time as she wants. An hour, two, three days, a week, a year, even, if she wanted to never bring it up, ever, that was fine –

“Oh my God, Graves.”

He frowns, because the situation is a bit unfavourable, yes, but he doesn’t think it’s as bad as all that.

“It’s not-“

“Oh my God, why didn’t you tell me, Graves, Oh my God.”

“I don’t think-“

“Well _that’s_ obvious.”

Now, that’s just uncalled for. “You could’ve told me he didn’t like coffee, Goldstein.”

“Oh my _God_.”

“Please desist.”

“ _Oh my GOD.”_

“I hardly think it warrants this much _repetition_ , Goldstein.” He glares at her. “I only followed your advice.”

“I told you to _ask him out for coffee_. Oh my _God._ This is _not_ what I meant, oh my-“

“Yes, I understand. You don’t need to say it again.”

“In what universe does ‘ask him out for coffee’ amount to this, Graves, oh my-“

“Please don’t.”

“- _HOW-“_

“Just sit down and help me, Goldstein.”

“With what, Graves. Being incompetent? You’re good enough at that on your own.”

_“Help me.”_

\----

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's just something about the image of Graves aggressively presenting Newt with coffee and Newt aggressively trying to escape from it that makes me smile. :D
> 
> Sometimes I imagine a penguin or three in Graves' head, one of them saying "Just frown and nod, boys. Frown and nod."
> 
> I hope you liked this chapter! I'd love to hear your thoughts on it. Comments and kudos are the sugar and milk to my coffee (and I take mine like Queenie does! :P)
> 
> And hey, if you're bored and think it might be worth your time, maybe you could check out some of my other works in the HP fandom?
> 
> Thanks for reading! Have a lovely day! <3


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